After eating lunch, it was time for another bloodletting session, which proceeded without any trouble. Ackster felt like the Doppelganger Slime in his image finally had enough blood to trick The Hero and all the spectators successfully tomorrow.
But Ackster couldn’t relax, even with the clever Doppelganger Slime perfectly imitating the image of the original Ackster he had portrayed while the slime copied and learned from him. By now, its behavioral patterns were practically set, so relaxing a little wouldn’t change anything.
There were just too many things that could go wrong, too many places where his plan could falter and collapse, revealing the truth to The Hero. Even if the plan ran its course to perfection, Ackster was still worried that The Hero would see through it.
It was just the beginning of the original story, and The Hero, at this point in time, was just a stronger-than-average Knight. He had a few of his core skills, but they hadn’t grown enough to help him unravel Ackster’s scheme. He also had yet to learn any proper spells.
The Hero shouldn’t discover anything amiss.
But Ackster, who had relatively recently finished reading the original story, remembered vividly what a monstrous bastard The Hero had been at the end. Since Ackster had just been a reader and hadn’t experienced it directly, he couldn’t say he was traumatized by it.
But The Hero was so strong that he would have been the definition of overpowered if it weren’t for the fact that the enemies he faced, especially at the end, were too powerful for him to overwhelm.
With the vivid descriptions and depictions of The Hero’s might as he wrecked his enemies and wreaked havoc on his surroundings, Ackster felt like he had seen The Hero’s power for himself.
It was the image of The Hero at the finale of the original story that Ackster had in mind while thinking about The Hero that would cut off his head in less than a day.
Ackster somehow managed to convince himself that it would be alright since the current Hero wasn’t much of a threat as long as he was on the other side of the country, though it would be even better if he replaced ‘country’ with ‘continent.’
After calming his tired mind, Ackster sat at his desk, pen and paper in hand.
Since he had to take a nap and prepare for the night, Ackster considered postponing writing the two letters he was going to write. But he was worried he would forget about it once he woke up. So, even if the quality would be a little lacking due to his blood loss and tiredness from having been awake for so much the past few days while also doing a bunch of strenuous activity, he still decided to write the letters.
As he began writing them, Ackster was finally happy that he had transmigrated into such a piece of shit like the original Ackster.
There was no way the original Ackster had bothered to learn proper etiquette a noble or up-and-coming noble would use when composing letters. He just had to write them and let the muscle memory in his hands ensure that it was the same handwriting as the original Ackster.
The two letters weren’t that different, just slightly different versions, one for his mother, Andrea Phileam, and one for his father, Mikhail Phileam.
The one to Andrea was mostly an apology for being such a bad son and that he had realized it on the doorstep to death. But since it was too late to do anything now, he was going to face his death the same way he had lived his life, as himself.
He also told her to forget about him and the stain upon the Phileam name’s honor that he was. That they shouldn’t even bother with a funeral, just stuff his body in a coffin and burn it. Let his ashes and spirit roam the world like the free-spirited bully he had been. He also hinted that his letter would serve as nothing but a grim reminder of what the eldest son of the Phileam House could have been and that it would be best to just burn it along with the coffin.
That last part was a clue to Andrea, who had probably sensed already what Ackster was up to. It was so that she wouldn’t leave any clues about Ackster’s fate behind. With how smart, capable, and full of love for her son, Ackster was sure she would understand and listen.
The letter to Mikhail was similar. He apologized and urged them to burn his body in the coffin they had most likely already prepared. Well, that Mikhail had already prepared since he was realistic enough to know what would happen to Ackster as soon as he heard the news of the duel between Ackster and The Hero.
But instead of the letter, Ackster continued to talk about how he should raise Melissa, the second child of the Phileam House as a great heir. Forget about Ackster and move on, but not without pressing The Hero and those affiliated with The Hero for compensation.
Although it wasn’t unprovoked, The Hero had still killed the eldest son of a noble family. Those more familiar with The Hero could probably also guess that The Hero had stoked the flames to dig out any trouble by its roots.
So, Mikhail would be fully in the right if he asked for any kind of compensation, whether that be in money, businesses, or land.
Asking for compensation instead of blaming The Hero and clamoring for revenge would also protect the Phileam House from The Hero’s tendency to get rid of any kind of possible trouble before it happens.
It would show The Hero and everyone else that the Phileam House and its Head, Mikhail Phileam, didn’t care about Ackster’s death. They cared about what they could get for it.
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And if they were satisfied, there would be no reason for The Hero to take care of them since they wouldn’t hold any thoughts about seeking retribution or revenge for Ackster. They would struggle to rise through the ranks of nobility with their compensation contentedly.
When he was done, Ackster stretched his arms, shoulders, and wrists. He wasn’t really that affected by writing the letters. It just felt appropriate since he had to focus on making the text legible.
‘Magical lamps in one corner and quills and ink in the other. Unbelievable.’
Ackster didn’t know what to think about how there were magic lamps even better than electricity and things like hot-water showers, but the people in this world didn’t use an alternative to old-fashioned feather quills and ink. It had to be easier to make simple pens or pencils using magic than it was to construct an automatic heating and cooling system, right?
Other than making a mental note to use that as a method to earn money in the future, Ackster didn’t waste any more time thinking about it. He had to make use of the hours he had left before he had to leave to rest and gather energy.
If things went smoothly, he wouldn’t have to do much intensive stuff. But Ackster wanted to prepare for if things didn’t go smoothly. Besides, sleeping was the best when one was exhausted.
Ackster rested his head against the pillow while telling his body to wake up in a few hours. He felt like, with Strong Body, he might be able to make his body listen to commands like that.
And he did wake up after a few hours of intense napping. But it wasn’t because of his skill. At least, he didn’t think so since the knocking on his door and the smell of food told him otherwise.
“Umm, young master? Your dinner is here.
Ackster stopped dragging his feet – he had slept enough – and got up to open the door while fixing his hair and rumpled clothes.
“What, is the food so cold you’re telling me to hurry up before you freeze?”
Ackster grabbed the plate before the usual kitchen staff could even react to him opening the door.
“Hmm. It is a little cold. Did you use ice cubes to cook it or what? Maybe it’s because of you? You are looking a little pale, you know. You know what’s good for limbs that are so cold it affects even my food?”
Ackster glared and looked down at the kitchen staff, who shrunk under the weight of Ackster’s angry gaze.
“Oh, you don’t?”
The kitchen staff hurriedly shook his head, mostly since he didn’t want to hear whatever Ackster was going to say. Of course, that headshaking meant he didn’t know the answer to Ackster’s question.
And the only feasible way for Ackster to respond to that would be to inform the kitchen staff of that.
“It’s exercise. It works wonders when you’re cold. Maybe you want to try it? Geez, man, you’re even shivering now. Hey, get on the floor.”
Ackster leaned in close next to the kitchen staff’s face and practically shoved his words into the poor guy’s ears. The kitchen worker could only obey. At least he would be able to claim compensation from the lord if Ackster went overboard.
The kitchen worker went down on all fours, waiting for what Ackster would do next in fear.
“I said get on your stomach.”
Ackster put his foot on the kitchen staff’s back and pushed him to the floor before standing on him.
“Now. Give me ten pushups. Since I care about the well-being of my family’s workers, I’ll make sure you complete them and regain some warmth, alright?”
The kitchen worker trembled and tried to put his arms in position to do a pushup.
“Hey, what kind of rickety stick-like arms are these? Are you really supposed to be a servant of the Phileam Estate? Are you sure you’re not some kind of baby ent?”
The kitchen hand tried to do a push-up while ignoring Ackster’s verbal abuse, which admittedly wasn’t that bad. However, the weight on his back was, and the kitchen staff realized where all the food the last couple of days had gone.
It was still better than the exercise the kitchen staff had expected. He thought Ackster would demonstrate by using his body as a punching bag. Compared to that, he almost preferred doing the pushups.
Well, he would have preferred it if he could have actually done them. Ackster weighed a ton, and the kitchen staff could only raise his head.
Ackster clicked his tongue and sighed.
“Man, I didn’t expect you to be this weak. I don’t think even worms, like literal worms, the kind you find in apples, are this weak. Hah~ What has the world come to when disgusting people this weak are allowed to walk around like they are actual human beings.”
Ackster gave up and sat down on the kitchen worker’s back while he started eating.
‘Sorry about this. I just need to cement Ackster’s – my – bad reputation. Can’t have anyone think I grew soft before my death, can we? I also need to vent some stress about this whole ordeal. I don’t think I have thought or worked this hard in a long while. So… Thanks, I guess, for letting me relieve some stress.’
Ackster apologized to and thanked the panting and trembling kitchen worker in his mind while he ate without a care. Since the kitchen worker couldn’t even raise his body a single hair’s width, Ackster didn’t have to worry about any instability while eating.
He briefly realized that he might have gotten a little too used to the original Ackster persona after pretending to be him for a couple of days, especially after treating the kitchen worker like a cushion, both for his body and his words.
He was a little worried, but when he thought about what he would have to do in the future, Ackster realized that the thorniness of the original Ackster would be useful.
But when he noticed the kitchen worker had started shedding silent tears, his conscience showed itself again and took a bite into his heart and the cold layer of thin iron he had put on it while pretending to be the original Ackster.
“Well, at this rate, even my ass is going to get cold. I’ll let you off this time, maggot.”
The kitchen worker, finally able to breathe properly again, sighed in relief as another wave of tears streaked down his cheeks.
Ackster was about to return to his room after putting the plate on the worker’s head.
“Well…?”
“...thank…you.”
The kitchen worker fought to let the right words out while looking at the floor.
“That’s right. Don’t forget to show gratitude to your superiors, worm.”
Ackster closed the door while showing off a mocking grin to the worker.
His face twisted and relaxed as soon as he was alone and no one could see him.
‘That might have been a little overboard… but, now, he’ll at least be very happy tomorrow.’
Ackster decided to make use of the fact that the servants, especially the poor guy he had traumatized the last few days, would be happy to see him die, even if it was merely his doppelganger, to justify his cruelty.